


Dance Like Everyone's Watching (The Reality Bites Remix)

by heyjupiter



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Gen, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyjupiter/pseuds/heyjupiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a mutant affairs reporter, Erik was just supposed to write a puff piece about Charles Xavier's all-mutant dance troupe. He wasn't supposed to get involved with helping Charles fight off the predatory reality television producer Nathaniel Essex. He definitely wasn't supposed to develop a crush on Charles.</p><p>Whoops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Like Everyone's Watching (The Reality Bites Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Square_Pancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Square_Pancake/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Dance Like Everyone is Watching](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281651) by [Square_Pancake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Square_Pancake/pseuds/Square_Pancake). 



> This is a remix of Square_Pancake's ballet dancer AU. Their original focuses much more on the dance aspect of the story, but I was intrigued by the brief mention of Nathaniel Essex in the original and spun that out into this remix.
> 
> Many thanks to my helpful beta reader/cheerleader, [anonymous]!

Erik was surprised when he walked into Starbucks for two reasons: first, his interviewee had already arrived, although Erik himself had arrived ten minutes before their scheduled meeting time; second, his interviewee was _hot_. He'd been attractive in the videos Erik had watched, of course, but in person was a whole different level. Erik paused in the doorway to gather his thoughts for a moment, and then approached Charles Xavier's table.

"Hello, I'm Erik," he said. "I hope you weren't waiting long?"

Charles smiled brightly and waved his hand dismissively. "I was in the neighborhood," he said. 

"Well, give me a moment to get set up, and we can get started right away," Erik said. He sat across from Charles and pulled his recorder and tablet from his messenger bag.

"I'm in no rush," Charles said. "I ordered you a coffee, but I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

"Black," Erik said. "Thank you, but--"

"But it's already here, so it would be a waste if you didn't drink it," Charles said, still smiling.

"Well. Thank you," Erik said, accepting the cup with a nod. He'd struggled to be respected as a mutant writing about mutant affairs; he was always aware that he was being held to a higher standard than a human writing about mutant affairs would be, and he didn't want his work to be tarnished by any allegations about his personal life. But he supposed one coffee wouldn't compromise his journalistic integrity. 

Erik pulled open his notes on the interview. He normally wrote on science and mutant affairs. He normally would have considered a story about a ballet troupe a puff piece, beneath his interest, but Fly Free happened to be an all-mutant troupe. Also, Moira had been very firm when she'd assigned it to him.

"May I record our conversation?" Erik asked.

"Of course."

Erik set up his recorder on the table, between the coffees. He asked Charles to state his name and occupation and checked the audio levels. He nodded his approval.

"Let me guess," Charles said, his tone wry. "Your first question is… how is a man in a wheelchair the director of a ballet troupe?"

Erik blinked. " _Actually_ , I was going to ask what was your inspiration to start an all-mutant ballet troupe?"

"Well, I'm a mutant, so it seemed like the thing to do," Charles said flippantly.

"Surely there's more to it than that," Erik replied. "I mean, I'm a mutant as well, and I certainly haven't started a dance troupe."

Charles smiled. "So _that's_ why Moira sent you."

Erik said, "I'm a mutant affairs reporter. And a mutant."

"And Fly Free is a 'mutant affairs' story? Not an 'arts' story?"

"I suppose it's both," Erik acknowledged. "I'm much more qualified to write about the mutant affairs aspect of it. Isn't that the more important angle, anyway?"

"How so?" Charles asked.

Erik fought back a derisive sound. Surely it was obvious? "Well, there's no shortage of dance troupes in the city, let alone the world. But yours is one of few mutant-only troupes, and certainly the most successful mutant troupe. Would you agree that that is notable?"

"But do you think that relegating us to mutant affairs is othering? If you were to write only about our artistic merits, you would be labeling us equal to all the baseline dancers."

"You're not equal to them," Erik said bluntly. Charles raised his eyebrows, and Erik said, "You're better than them. You and your dancers do things that would be impossible for baseline humans to do." Mentally, he shook his head. He was being a terrible journalist, inserting his own views and not asking enough questions. He looked at his notes and rephrased, "How would _you_ compare Fly Free to other dance companies?"

Charles smiled. "Our dancers are just as skilled as other top ballet professionals. However, our company uniquely enhances our performances with psionic projections."

"Could you tell me more about how that works? I've watched a few videos of your group, but…"

"But some things can only be experienced in person. Of course. Let me give you a demonstration," Charles said, extending his hand.

Erik pulled his hand away and said, "Why don't you describe it to me, first? So I can describe it to my readers."

Charles's wide blue eyes looked briefly disappointed, but he said, "Fair enough. What I do is project a mental illusion that accompanies the dance. For a simple example, at one point, I make the colors of dancers' costumes appear to change."

"And have you heard of any audience members expressing discomfort with this tactic?"

"All of our audience members must sign a waiver. Those who choose to attend our performances enjoy the experience. Think of it as like watching a movie with CGI scenes. You know it's not real, but it's enjoyable."

"Have you heard anyone voice suspicions that you might use these abilities outside of the theater?"

"People have always had those suspicions about me and others with psionic abilities," Charles said. "At least this way, some of them will pay for the privilege of experiencing it. And, as you know, use of psionic abilities to influence another person against their will is illegal under the Psionic Abilities Act of 2012." He had a polished air, as if he had used that line many times. He probably had.

Erik nodded. He was very familiar with the nation's various mutant legislation, past and pending. He asked, "Fly Free also includes a number of mutants with very visible mutations. As you tour the country, have you or any members of the troupe encountered any anti-mutant bigotry?"

Charles's smile dimmed slightly. "People fear what they don't understand," he acknowledged. "On our travels we have certainly encountered some… unpleasantness. But nothing serious. We've had far more encounters where we were told we were inspirations, role models, for younger mutants. Here, let me show you..." he trailed off, pulled out his phone, and showed Erik a string of photos of happy children posing with Charles and other members of Fly Free, who Erik recognized from his research.

Erik nodded. "Yes, I can see that."

"Whoops," Charles said. He'd scrolled too far and had briefly shown Erik a picture of Charles shirtless, at the beach, with another man's arm around him. Charles looked up apologetically. "No need to mention the beach trip with my ex in the story, right?"

"Right," Erik agreed, uncomfortable with the relief he felt at hearing the word _ex_. It was not a becoming thought for a professional journalist to have. "Well, that was very… illuminating," he said.

"Now, are you ready for a demonstration of the psionic component of the show?" Charles asked.

"Thank you, but I'd rather wait until I can see the full performance," Erik said. The truth was, he felt uncomfortable at the idea of Charles touching Erik's mind and seeing any stray thoughts that indicated how lust-filled Erik's thoughts were. It seemed... uncouth. 

"I see," Charles said, again looking slightly disappointed. "Well, I'll be sure to put on a good show tonight."

"I look forward to it."

"Did you have any other questions for me?" Charles asked.

Erik scrolled through his notes, reminding himself he was here for an interview, not a date. "No, this is excellent, for now. Would you be available for a follow-up interview after I've had a chance to observe your performance?"

Charles gave Erik an impish grin that made Erik wonder if Erik was inadvertently projecting his impure thoughts. "Yes, I'm certain that can be arranged," he said.

"I look forward to it," Erik said, beginning to pack up. "Thank you again, for the coffee. I'll buy next time."

"Oh, I was thinking next time might be dinner," Charles said, still grinning.

Erik smiled back. "After the show, then." 

Erik went back to his office and worked on his article, trying hard to remain objective as he wrote about the troupe's goals and charismatic founder. He'd researched Fly Free before interviewing Charles, but he decided to Google "Fly Free tour" just to see what else he might find. He looked at the schedule posted on Fly Free's website and noticed that Boston appeared to be the last stop on their tour. He wondered where they would go next, and made a note to ask Charles about it on their follow-up interview. The future of Fly Free was certainly an important topic to discuss--and if their tour was ending here, perhaps Erik might have more of a chance to get to know Charles. He tried to dismiss that thought as being unprofessional, but he didn't quite succeed.

Another of the most recent hits on his search was a brief Variety story posted just hours earlier with the headline "Essex Promotes 'Fly Free' Reality Show." Erik loathed reality television on principle, but even he had heard of Nathaniel Essex. He was unfortunately one of the most well-known out mutants in Hollywood. His company, Sinister Productions, was responsible for many popular shows that Erik had never seen, garbage like Extreme Genetic Makeover and Cape Wars. 

Essex himself was subject to a lot of complaints about the oppressive contracts his shows required and the abusive conditions his shows put on cast members, particularly children. Despite that, there were no shortage of people willing to pledge their firstborn children for a shot at their 15 minutes of fame. There were even some who felt Essex was doing good work by showcasing mutants on TV, and his charitable trust funded arts programs for underprivileged youths. Of course, Essex used those same programs to recruit for his shows, so Erik didn't give him a lot of credit.

Erik didn't like to think of Charles and his troupe degrading themselves on reality television at all, let alone for someone like Nathaniel Essex. The Variety story noted that Charles Xavier was unavailable for comment. Erik would definitely have to follow up on that in their next interview.

After Erik closed the Variety story and convinced himself to stop looking at Google Image results for "Charles Xavier," he headed home to change before the performance. He might not have been an arts reporter, but he still knew better than to wear jeans to a ballet performance. He spruced himself up and drove to the opera hall. He paid too much to park and picked up his comp ticket at the box office. He found himself in a box with a few other journalists. They all seemed to know each other--they probably reviewed the same thing soften--and were politely curious about him. He made the bare minimum amount of small talk before the lights dimmed and he could ignore them. 

The performance was extraordinary. There were beautiful mutations on display--a woman flew around on dragonfly wings and a man with angel wings. A metamorph performed dazzling transformations. Charles's wheelchair chorography didn't look at all out of place among the controlled chaos, and his expressive features were an astonishing storytelling device.

Erik was a journalist but he didn't have the language to fully describe the overall effect of the performance--the combination of human physicality and unique mutant gifts alone would have made it marvelous, but the addition of Charles's psionic enhancements was transcendent. It didn't feel invasive or forced, the way he feared it might. It felt like he was accessing new parts of his own brain. It felt like he had once been color-blind and was now able to see the full spectrum. It felt like he was in an astonishing new country; it felt like he was home. Tears welled up in his eyes. He didn't feel self-conscious crying with strangers. They were crying too--sobbing, some of them--and after sharing this experience, no one else in the audience felt like a stranger to him.

After the performance, Erik hastily wiped the tears from his eyes--now that Charles had ended his psionic hold on the audience, Erik no longer felt quite so connected to his seatmates--and asked an usher how to get backstage. The usher started to ask for a backstage pass, when Erik felt Charles' voice in his head directing him. Erik supposed the usher must have heard something too, because she shrugged when Erik walked past her. 

Backstage, Erik noticed a few of the arts reporters he'd been seated with. He noted smugly that none of the others were being psychically directed straight to Charles's dressing room.

Charles was sitting in front of a mirror, shirtless, sweaty, and chugging something out of a Nalgene bottle. Erik tried to be discreet as he ogled what he could see of Charles's strongly-developed back and shoulder muscles. He wasn't sure how successfully he could be discreet around such a powerful telepath, though. Not that he suspected Charles of snooping; just that he knew it could be hard for telepaths to avoid picking up certain strong thoughts. His friend Emma reminded him of it all the time.

"Erik! How did you enjoy the show?" Charles asked, wheeling around to face Erik.

"It was… incredible," Erik said. "I've never seen anything like it."

"I should hope not," Charles replied with a grin. "I imagine my attorney would get involved if you had."

"Interesting. Can you copyright a psionic performance?" Erik asked. It was a question closer to his usual professional interests than arts review.

"We've registered it as a 'choreographic work.'" Erik nodded and made a mental note to research it later. Charles took a long drink and continued, "Of course, if a fellow mutant wanted help developing their own psionic performance, I'd be delighted to train them."

"Are there other telepaths in your troupe?"

"Yes, one. She's apprenticing with me. I think before long she'll be strong enough to anchor her own troupe."

"Ah," Erik said. He tried to keep his tone neutral as he asked, "So then would there be two companies?"

"Oh, we're not quite to the stage of making any decision along those lines," Charles said smoothly.

"What about the reality show?"

Charles looked up. "Where did you hear about that?" he asked sharply.

"Variety," Erik said.

Charles said, "Shit." He took another long drink and said, "Would you mind terribly if we discussed this further tomorrow?"

"Of course," Erik said, trying to mask his disappointment.

"Thank you for understanding. I'd still love it if you'd join me for dinner… I'm just not prepared to talk about the future of Fly Free right now."

Erik nodded. As a journalist, he should be trying to take advantage of the situation to get some kind of scoop. But as a person, he found himself concerned for Charles, who was obviously upset. "That's… understandable. I'm sure you're tired after that performance."

"Exhausted," Charles said with an apologetic smile.

"I'll wait outside while you get ready," Erik said reluctantly.

"I'll be quick."

He was, and after he emerged, he took Erik to a nearby diner. "It's not very posh, but it's quick and it's good, and after a performance I just need to eat something quickly," Charles said.

"I love diners," Erik said. 

"Oh, good. Some people can't appreciate the simple pleasures of a cheeseburger and fries, you know."

Erik's kosher-keeping parents, for example, would not appreciate it, but what they didn't know didn't hurt them. "Agreed," Erik said. "I appreciate fine cuisine as much as the next person, but sometimes you just want meat and potatoes."

"Exactly," Charles said. He ordered exactly that, plus a vanilla milkshake.

"That sounds good. I'll have the same," Erik said.

Just after they ordered, someone approached their table. Erik would have assumed it was the waitress returning except for the terse look on Charles's face. Erik turned to look and saw a tall, pale man standing there.

"Charles! Fancy running into you," the man said. He had a British accent and his tone was poisonously sweet. 

"Dr. Essex. I thought you were in LA," Charles said.

"I was, but now I am here. Modern travel is astonishing," Essex said, with a smile that didn't seem to reach his red eyes. Erik knew it was bigoted to find visible mutations creepy, but Essex was definitely off-putting. Erik suspected the man would have been unpleasant even with a so-called normal skin and eye color. 

"The performance tonight was sublime. But now I find myself in need of sustenance. Do you mind if I join you?" Essex asked, already sliding into one of the table's empty chairs, next to Erik and across from Charles. Unfortunately, the diner's designated handicap-accessible table was meant to sit four, so they couldn't very well claim there wasn't room for him.

Erik glanced across the table at Charles, head tilted slightly. Instantly, he heard Charles's voice in his head, advising, _Let's not make a scene_.

Erik gave a small shrug. He didn't mind causing a scene, but he'd respect Charles's wishes. For now.

Essex frowned at a menu. When the waitress came back, he ordered a glass of water.

"I thought you were hungry," Erik couldn't help but say.

"Not for _this_ ," Essex said, with a dismissive gesture. "Now, Charles, have you had a chance to look over my offer? You will find it to be quite generous." 

"I'm afraid I've been too busy," Charles said. "But, as I've said, I doubt my troupe will be interested."

"I am sure I could convince them," Essex said. It sounded threatening.

"Oh, I don't know that that will be necessary," Charles replied. "I think we all agree that what we do is best suited to live performance."

"But surely you see that television would let you influence _so_ many more minds."

"I'm not quite sure that I see 'influencing minds' as the goal of Fly Free," Charles said.

"No?" Essex asked. "Well, there is also the financial aspect…"

Charles laughed. "That's not a concern for us, either."

Essex raised his eyebrows. "There's nothing you would do with more money? Open a dance academy, perhaps?"

"And when would I have time to run a dance academy, if we're busy filming reality television every day?"

Just then, the waitress returned and presented Charles and Erik with their deliciously greasy food. "Can I get anything else for you guys?" she asked.

"Leave us," Essex commanded.

She raised her eyebrows and backed off. 

"That was rude," Erik said. 

Essex ignored him, and told Charles, "I was hoping that we could come to an agreement, but I really only need permission from one member of your troupe. And I have that."

"What?" Charles asked.

"Yes, it seems not all members of your troupe share your distaste for reality television. Or perhaps they just have more student loans than you do. At any rate, we will be moving forward with the show. Your agreement would make things simpler, of course, but strictly speaking, it is not necessary. However, you might think about the platform this would give you. You could choose to speak out about your troupe and its goals… or you could appear as a blurred face in the background. The choice is yours."

Erik had eaten half of his meal while observing this interchange, but Charles hadn't touched his food. Erik jumped into the conversation to say, "Charles, you should eat your food while it's still hot. I'm sure you burned a lot of calories tonight."

"I find I've lost my appetite," Charles said.

"You really should eat at a less greasy establishment. My personal assistant can send you some suggestions," Essex said. He stood up from the table and added, "Think about my offer, Charles. Think about if you want to be portrayed on television as the noble, inspiring leader of a mutant dance troupe… or someone who is too cowardly to show their face. I expect to hear from you soon."

He stalked out of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a waitress as he went.

"That was outrageous," Erik said. 

Charles pushed his fries around his plate. "He does have a point, though."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, if they're going to make the show anyway… it would look bad if I wasn't part of it. Like I was ashamed of being a mutant."

"You believe him? That someone already signed a contract?"

"I don't think he was bluffing, no," Charles said. 

"Well, who do you think would have signed the contract? Perhaps you can terminate their contract with the troupe."

Charles shook his head. "No… I think… it was my sister."

"Which one was your sister?" Erik should have known this from his research, but he didn't recall any other dancers with the last name Xavier.

"She's the metamorph."

"Oh. And you think she would have?"

"Well… it… it was what Essex said about student loans. My family was well-off, but… Raven is adopted, and my asshole stepfather removed her from the will. I wanted to pay for her college, but she wouldn't accept my help… oh, I'm sorry, this is all very personal for a first date, isn't it?"

Erik raised his eyebrows. "This isn't a date, Charles. I would never be so unprofessional as to _date_ the subject of an interview."

"Oh, no?" Charles asked.

"Not while I'm still working on a story about them, anyway," Erik said. "But, listen. I do a lot of reporting on legal issues, particularly mutant legal issues. If I could take a look at whatever contract has been signed, I can help you figure out if it's binding, and what options you might have. Essex is notorious for having extremely restrictive contracts… but there might be something we can do."

"You'll help us?" Charles asked, widening his blue, blue eyes.

Erik smiled. "I'll see what I can do… in exchange for an exclusive story. And a date… after this is settled."

Charles smiled back. "I think I can agree to those terms."

Erik paid for his meal, including a generous tip for the waitress who'd been tormented by Essex, and insisted that Charles box up his uneaten meal. "You might get hungry later," he said, hearing his mother's voice echoing in his head as he did. Charles smiled and accepted the box, as well as Erik's offer to walk him home.

"I'm staying at the Four Seasons. It isn't far," Charles said. At the end of their short journey, Erik lingered in the doorway of Charles's room for a moment. Charles said, "You can come in, if you'd like."

Erik said, "I shouldn't… not while I'm writing a story about you."

"I respect your professionalism," Charles said with a pout and a tone that implied otherwise.

"Good night, Charles. Send me any information about that contract as soon as you have it," Erik said, pulling the hotel room door shut firmly behind him. 

Erik went back home and sent out a few emails calling in favors before surrendering to a few hours of sleep. In the morning, he opened his eyes and grabbed his iPhone, scrolling through his email. He hadn't gotten replies to all of last night's pleas yet, but it was barely six a.m., so he supposed he couldn't be _too_ irritated yet. He was disappointed that there was nothing from Charles yet, but he reminded himself that Charles's career likely made him a night owl.

Instead, he buckled down to research some of Sinister Productions' other reality shows, and the complaints they'd received. Cast members on Clone Zone complained that they hadn't realized the show's intense makeovers--designed to make strangers all appear identical to one another--would have so many permanent effects. Cooks who competed on Cooking With Power were forced into long, low-paid contracts at the popular cooking show's chain of restaurants. Competitors on X-Factor, the mutant battle show, complained that they were coerced into using their mutant powers in ways they never would have normally done. Children on Dance Moms and Orphanage Idol needed years of therapy, as did many of the moms on MILF Island. As for Extreme Genetic Makeover… Erik still wasn't sure how that had ever made it past television Standards & Practices.

Many family members of contestants reported dramatic personality changes in their loved ones when they returned home from one of his shows, "as if they'd been hypnotized or something." Erik saw that phrase again and again and started having an unpleasant hunch. It was illegal and unethical for telepathic mutants to use their abilities to influence others, and it was bigoted to assume that telepaths would do such a thing. Erik didn't even know for certain if Essex was a telepath--his visual appearance marked him as a mutant, and he identified as a mutant, but he'd never publicly stated what his abilities were. Most people assumed they had something to do with his vision, because of his red eyes, but Erik was beginning to wonder if there was something more, well, sinister at play here. If Essex were using mutant abilities to force people to sign or obey contracts, and Erik could prove it… that would certainly put an end to this.

His phone buzzed with a text from Erik, inviting him to breakfast at the same diner they'd eaten at last night. _I have the contract_ , he said.

 _I'll be there in 10 minutes_ , Erik replied. He threw on jeans and a button-down shirt, grabbed his messenger bag, and hit the road. When he got there, Charles was already seated at a table with the blue-skinned metamorph he'd seen in last night's performance. Both dancers looked exhausted and were clinging to cups of coffee. Erik was touched to note there was a mug of black coffee waiting for him as well.

"Morning," Erik said, sitting down behind the coffee cup.

"Erik! Thank you so much for coming. This is my sister, Raven. Raven, this is Erik, he's a journalist with the Boston Globe. He's going to help us."

Raven shook his hand politely, but said, "I don't need help."

"Raven!" Charles scolded.

"How is your friend the journalist going to help more than Nathaniel will? Print journalism is dead. No offense," she said, with a quick glance at Erik.

"None taken," Erik said. "However, my area of expertise is mutant legal affairs, so I'd be happy to take a look at the contract you signed."

"Let him look at it," Charles urged.

"Ugh, you're not my dad," Raven said.

"Of course not, but I'd still like to look out for you."

"For me, or for the dance troupe that you don't want to dumb down on reality television?"

"Both," Charles said. "But you, especially. So many of the contestants on Essex's shows have reported being mistreated by him, or tricked into signing particularly punitive contracts."

"So you think I'm not smart enough to sign my own contract?" Raven asked.

"It's not that at all," Charles said. "Please, Raven."

She sighed. "Well, I already signed it, so go ahead and look at it. Try not to get coffee on it," she said, passing a stack of papers over to Erik.

He read the legal jargon closely. The busy diner was not an ideal environment for this, but the research he'd done on Essex's other shows helped him immensely, since this contract followed the same basic pattern as others he'd read about. From a legal standpoint, it was pretty iron-clad--assuming Raven had been "of sound mind" when she had signed it. Raven seemed prickly, and he doubted she would respond favorably if he suggested she had been brainwashed when she signed it. He'd have to talk to Charles about that theory separately.

"OK, you've given him permission to look at all your past legal and medical files, you've given him the option to extend your contract for up to thirty years if he wishes…"

"I know," Raven said. "I know. But get to the part about the student loans."

Erik flipped through. "Sinister Productions will pay the remaining balance of Actor's consolidated federal student loans after the Program's tenth season. Actor will be responsible for paying interest on aforementioned loans."

"Wait, what?" Raven said. "Let me see that."

Erik pointed at it, and she frowned. "I swear… I swear that's not what it said… I had Angel look it over and..."

"Is Angel a lawyer?" Erik asked, possibly more snidely than he had intended.

"Are _you_?" Raven snapped back. "Listen, I know you both think you're too good for reality TV, and you both think I'm an idiot for even wanting to do this, but I read that contract carefully. It said something about loans going into _immediate_ repayment, not this ten-year thing."

"Was there a different copy? Did he email you an electronic copy?"

Raven shook her head. "No, I--I signed the one I read, right there in his office. This is a photocopy, but--I watched his assistant make the copy. There wasn't time to make a decoy or whatever."

"Talk me through this. How much time did you spend at his office?" Erik asked.

"A--a few hours, at least. It was pretty long. His assistant brought us coffee and stuff, and I read through it, and we talked about it, and… I signed it."

"Do you remember if there was a security camera in his office?"

Raven shrugged. "Uh, that's not really what I look for in places. I'm not like, a cat burglar."

"Hmm," Erik said. He tapped his fingers on the table.

"What do you think?" Charles asked. "Should we hire a lawyer?"

"It probably wouldn't hurt," Erik said. "But people have tried to sue him before and the cases always get dismissed. He's… very good at this."

Raven looked at the contract again and shrugged. "Well, I guess I'm just back where I started, loan-wise… but now I have a TV show."

"You really want a television show?" Charles asked, as if she had expressed a desire for a pet spider.

"Yes!" Raven said. "Remember when we were growing up, and we didn't know any other mutants? Especially not any who look like me? I thought it was so amazing when Morlock Manor came on and I could see other mutants. Mutants who didn't look… normal."

"Half the kids on that show ended up suing for emotional distress," Erik said.  
Raven shrugged. "Well, they were kids. I'm an adult! I know what I'm getting into."

"You're nineteen," Charles said.

"Like I said. I'm an adult," Raven repeated. "I didn't ask for your help, Charles."

Charles shot Erik a pained, exasperated glance. Erik bit back a smile. "Be that as it may, your decision doesn't affect just you. It affects the whole troupe," Charles said. "We should have more information before we talk to them about it."

"Fine. Whatever," Raven said. She drained the last remnants of her coffee and stalked off.

"I'm sorry," Charles said. "I really do appreciate your help, it's just…"

"She's nineteen?" Erik said.

"Quite. She's not as bad as Snooki, but…"

"Who?" Erik asked.

"Never mind," Charles said quickly. "So, do you think she can get out of her contract?"

Erik sighed and explained to Charles his theory about Essex's mutant abilities. He added, "Of course I know that most telepaths would never do such a thing, but…"

Charles nodded. "No, Erik, you're right… that _would_ explain a lot. And some mutants do use their abilities for ill… not most of them, of course. And that would explain why he was unable to convince me."

"Would you be able to tell if someone was trying to influence your thoughts?" Erik asked.

"Hmm. In most cases, yes, but I suppose if a telepath was sufficiently powerful I might not notice? It certainly isn't something that happens often. I'm used to feeling attempts from my students, who are relatively inexperienced."

"If you were looking for it, do you think you'd be able to detect it?" Erik asked.

Charles shrugged. "I can't speak in absolutes, but it doesn't really matter. I have a device that detects when psionic abilities are used."

"You… where did you get that?" Erik asked.

"Oh, I designed it. We use it in rehearsals."

"Something like that…"

"Something like that could be dangerous in the wrong hands," Charles said firmly. "The last thing I want is for people to go on anti-mutant witch hunts. However... it would be useful in this situation."

"You're right, on both counts," Erik said, his brain spinning with the implications. "How reliable is your machine? Would it be admissible evidence in court?"

"I… I'm not sure. I'm not sure that I'd want it to be, to be honest. A public trial could be very ugly. It would have nasty repercussions for mutants," Charles said with a frown. "But I suppose it would be worth it in the end, if it would protect Raven."

"Let me look into options. Essex would likely prefer to settle out of court as well." Erik glanced at his phone for the time. "I'm sure you have things to do to prepare for tonight's show. Why don't you let me see what I can come up with today, and we can talk tonight?"

Charles smiled. "That would be lovely of you. I truly appreciate your help."

"It's going to be an excellent story," Erik said.

Charles's smile faded slightly and he said, "Yes, of course."

"Thanks for the coffee. I'll talk to you tonight," Erik said. He packed the reality show contract into his bag and hurried into his office.

"I heard you got an exclusive interview after the show," Moira said. "The Herald's arts reporter was furious. Nice work!"

Erik nodded. "I might have an even bigger story, but I need more information."

"Do tell." Erik filled her in. She listened intently, nodding increasingly quickly.

"Whew, that's a hell of a story, if you can prove it," she said. "You need anything from me?"

"I'm not sure. I sent out some emails late last night. Let me see what I can pull together."

"And you'll have a review of the performance ready for me either way?"

Erik sighed. "Yes, ma'am."

"Fantastic. Now get back to work," Moira said teasingly.

Erik rolled his eyes and opened his laptop. He reviewed the replies he'd gotten to his calls for help. St. John and Mortimer were eager to help if they could, but neither of them had original ideas. Irene told him she was confident things would work out, but she didn't have any concrete suggestions. But, as he'd hoped, Emma was intrigued and available. Emma Frost was a defense attorney popularly called the Ice Queen for her fashion sense as well as her ruthlessness. She also happened to be a telepath.

Erik scanned in Raven's contract--not trusting an intern with the task--and sent the PDF to Emma, who promised to get back to him soon.

While he waited, he tried to work on a heartwarming story about a boy with ice powers running a lemonade stand for charity, but his heart wasn't really in it. Finally, Emma called back and said, "Dr. Essex really is an evil genius." Her tone was admiring.

"And? Can you help?"

"It's a pretty iron-clad contract, darling."

"What if she was psionically coerced into signing it?"

"Well, that would be something else entirely… if you had proof."

Erik explained about Charles's device, as well as his desire to settle out of court.

"Oh, I can make that happen," she said. Erik could hear her sharp smile over the phone. "If you can get me proof, I'm sure I can make this all go away. You'll owe me one, of course..."

"Of course," Erik said. He generally tried to avoid owing people favors, but this seemed worth it. Taking down Essex would be a great story, even if he couldn't put it all on the record.

He called back Charles and they set up a plan: Charles would find a dancer who would be willing to meet with Essex, who was eager to get more dancers on board for his show.The dancer would be equipped with the psionic detection device, which Charles had altered slightly to transmit its readings back to Charles's computer. Charles would also psychically shield the dancer to keep them from being actually influenced by Essex. Erik would also provide a hidden recorder for audio--which wouldn't be admissible in court, but which could still be damning for Essex, especially in Emma's hands. 

It wasn't a foolproof plan, but it was pretty good.

"Be thinking about where you want to go for dinner afterward," Charles said.

"Anywhere is fine," Erik replied.  
"Well, I don't think we should go to the diner for our first date," Charles said.

Erik let out a laugh. "I'll get on Yelp as soon as this article is finished."

"I look forward to it," Charles said, and hung up.

While he waited to hear back from Charles, Erik put the finishing touches on his article about Fly Free and sent it to Moira. It didn't address the reality show at all, which might be a flaw, given that Variety already had the story. But if Erik played his cards right, he'd have an even better scoop soon.

Hours later, an email from Charles popped up. Erik reminded himself that he was only excited because of the _story_. It was the excitement all journalists felt chasing down a story. Definitely not a crush. Just the thrill of a PDF documenting a sharp spike in psionic activity correlated with an audio file of Essex smoothly telling Jean Grey that her reality show contract would guarantee her a lifetime supply of cosmetics from Sephora, which definitely did not appear in the printed contract. Erik forwarded it all to Emma.

Moments later, Emma called. "I can work with this," she said, as soon as he answered the phone. "My driver will pick you up at seven. Wear white."

"Cashing in your favor so soon?"

"No, this is still part of me doing a favor for you. Essex and I happen to belong to the same social club. He'll be there tonight, and so will we."

"And I have to wear white?"

"Yes."

"White… what? I have white shirts. Do you mean white pants?"

"White everything," Emma commanded. "Ugh, I'll have something delivered to your office. Send me your measurements. Seven in front of your office, darling, don't be late." She hung up.

Erik sighed and sent Emma his measurements. He knew better than to disobey her; she'd send him something ridiculous and he'd still have to go with her.

True to her word, a ridiculous white tuxedo arrived at Erik's office at six. Too late, he realized he could have asked her to send it to his apartment, but he'd been overwhelmed by Moira. He changed and tried to slide out a back door, but of course he ran into Moira.

She raised an eyebrow. "I give you one arts assignment and you start dressing like this?"

"Very funny."

"Seriously, are you starting a magic act?"

"I happen to be visiting a social club with a dress code," Erik said as haughtily as possible.

Moira's eyes widened. "The Hellfire Club?"

"I'm not certain, actually," Erik said. "I'm going with Emma."

"Oh my god, you're going to the Hellfire Club with Emma Frost? Oh my god, you have to tell me all about it. Oh, you should livetweet it," Moira said, delighted.

"What's the Hellfire Club?" Erik asked.

"You don't even… oh my god. It's this weirdo club for mega-rich people who love pretending to be sexy evil wizards. It's like a LARP sex dungeon country club."

"... what."

"I think it used to be more like a Skull and Bones kind of thing. It's all very hush-hush but it's kind of a badly-kept secret. Oh, I would love to go. Actually no. I would love for you to go, and tell me all about it. I'm so blessed," Moira said.

"Bye, Moira," Erik said. "Have a good weekend."

"I will… especially after you text me from the Hellfire Club."

Erik shook his head and made his way to the front of the building. A white limo pulled up in front moments later.

"The tux looks like it fits you reasonably well," Emma said. He said nothing about her attire, which was basically just fancy lingerie. He thought Moira had been teasing him about the sex dungeon. "Now listen, Erik, just do as I say tonight."

"Yes ma'am," Erik said.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Erik."

Emma's driver took them to a building that basically appeared to be a mansion tastefully decked out for Halloween. At the door, someone actually asked Emma for a password. She gave it and checked Erik in as a guest. They made him leave his cell phone in a locker, so Erik supposed he wouldn't be able to text Moira after all. Although if things got too weird, Erik knew the locker would be no match for his abilities. Moira took his elbow and led him into what looked like a parlor from a Jane Austen movie adaptation.

"Go get me a drink," she said, nodding toward a bar.

"What would you like?"

"Just tell her you're here with the White Queen," she said with a dangerous smile.

Erik did so and was rewarded with a strong gin and tonic with what appeared to be a diamond-tipped swizzle stick. He tried to keep his face from expressing his disgust for rich people. He ordered a beer for himself, and the bartender made no such effort to keep the disgust off her face as she poured him one. Erik regretted his order, not because of her disdain, but because he realized he was going to need something stronger to get through the night.

He took the drink back to Emma and found that his spot had been taken by a man in a black suit. Erik wondered why Emma couldn't have asked him to wear a normal black suit, like many of the other men in the room wore. 

"Thank you, Erik," she said, taking the drink. Telepathically she said, _This is Sebastian Shaw. Just wait. I won't be able to talk to him for five minutes without Nathaniel butting in._

Erik shrugged and sat down at another empty seat, nursing his beer. Emma's prediction had been correct, and Essex materialized next to them within minutes. He was dressed in black, too. Erik wondered if they were on opposing teams. He rather hoped so. He watched as Emma smiled a dangerous smile, threaded her arm around Essex's, and led him out of the parlor. Erik desperately wished he had his phone to fidget with. Instead he passed the time by crossing his arms and staring at the floor. A woman in white lingerie sized him up and then sent a white-suited man over to talk to him.

"Hey rookie, what's your name?" the man asked.

"Excuse me," Erik said, and walked away. He wanted no part of the sex dungeon. At least, not with these people, he didn't.

After far, far too long, Emma materialized by his side. "Let's get out of here right now," she said, still smiling.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Yes. But you owe me _two_ favors," she said, leading him back toward the door. Erik retrieved his phone and was all too happy to follow her outside.

"So you… what, blackmailed him?"

"I cannot discuss Hellfire Club business with you."

"I can keep a secret."

"You're a journalist, Erik."

"And you're speaking off the record," he said.

She shook her head. "All you need to know is that… you owe me."

"I have to imagine Essex owes you something, too," he said.

She smiled. "How fortunate for me."

"Regardless, I appreciate your help. And yes, I'll be happy to return the favor when I can."

Erik's phone vibrated, and he looked at the message. Charles had texted, _Erik, you're amazing. Thank you!_ He texted back and forth with Charles the whole way back and knew that owing Emma would be worth it. (He also texted Moira to let her know that the Hellfire Club wasn't as exciting as she'd made it sound. She replied with a sad emoji.)

When Erik got home, he immediately opened his laptop and started working on two stories. One was about Nathaniel Essex's abrupt decision to retire from television to "spend more time with his family." The other was about an up-and-coming mutant filmmaker who had recently completed a documentary about Alison Blaire's latest tour and expressed interest in filming a respectful documentary about Fly Free. He planned to forward that article to Charles just as soon as he finished writing it. 

Then, before bed, he combed through the Globe's restaurant reviews archive, looking for the perfect first date restaurant. Something fancy, but not too fancy… there were a truly overwhelming number of restaurants in Boston. He was tempted to give up his search and take Charles to Red Lobster. Erik had a secret, shameful love for their cheesy biscuits. Then he remembered how blue Charles's eyes were, and how his bare, muscled shoulders had looked in the dressing room, and he renewed his commitment to finding a date-worthy restaurant. Finally, he found a place that promised to "elevate typical diner fare to a new level" with "organic, locally-sourced ingredients" and a "cozy, romantic atmosphere." It sounded perfect. Erik made a note to himself to make a reservation in the morning and then he went to bed, hoping he wouldn't have Hellfire Club dreams.

The next evening, Erik met Charles backstage at the opera house. 

"Have you filed all your stories?" Charles asked with an impish smile.

In response, Erik leaned down and kissed him.

"I've been wanting you to do that for ages," Charles said.

Erik thought about pointing out the truth, that they'd only met two days ago. Instead he said, "Me too," which was also true.

"This will be easier if you get on the sofa," Charles said, pointing toward the loveseat in the corner of his dressing room. Erik happily obeyed, and Charles transferred himself out of his wheelchair and onto the sofa.

Charles was right; it was much easier that way. One thing led to another, and eventually Erik looked up and said, "I think we've missed our restaurant reservation."

Charles gave Erik a mischievous smile and said, "We're in no rush. The diner is open 24 hours."

"Perfect," Erik said, and it was.


End file.
